


I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire

by ThePenultimateAvenger



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:44:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3867517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePenultimateAvenger/pseuds/ThePenultimateAvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime in the '90s, Freddy is a college student who sells weed on the side. Larry is his best friend's hot dad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Climbing into the window of Bobby's house always makes Freddy nervous as hell, even if it's not technically breaking and entering, which it's _not_. It's just...entering. Entering a house he doesn't own. He's done this with Bobby dozens of times after locking themselves out and even though this situation is admittedly a bit different, he doesn't have much of a choice. He's got a bio test in half an hour; open book, super easy to ace just so long as he can grab his textbook from the living room inside. It's such an easy A, and he refuses to let it slip through his fingers because he could sure as hell use it.

The house should be empty, anyway. In the semester and a half that Freddy has known Bobby, he has yet to meet the father he's only heard about on a couple occasions, and today should be no different. Get in, get out, pass a test, smoke another bowl in celebration—it's a foolproof plan.

Except that today _is_ different.

He notices the scent of cigarette smoke a split second before he notices the man sitting on the couch and if he was worried about looking like a robber before, it's nothing compared to how he feels now.

“If you're here to rob me, I would suggest you rethink that. I know a guy who can make people disappear.” The man says, calmly looking up from the newspaper he's reading.

“Jesus _Christ_ , no, I'm not here to—I'm a friend of Bobby's.” Freddy squeaks. He would laugh if he wasn't frozen in place, partly because the words are genuinely terrifying and partly because this guy is fuckin' hot and Freddy's twenty year old libido hasn't seen any action in weeks. He suddenly feels a little light-headed, trying desperately to stave off the heat pooling in his stomach. “He's in class so I assumed no one would be home, I'm sorry. But, uh, I left my textbook here this weekend and there's an open book test in class today, so...” He trails off a little awkwardly, staring down at the coffee table that separates them and clearing his throat.

“You got a name, Bobby's friend?”

“Freddy, sir. Freddy Newandyke.” Freddy offers immediately. The only thing keeping him focused is the metaphorical ticking of the clock counting down to a test that he can't afford to fail, and the thought does a pretty good job of arranging his priorities. “Look, I'm really sorry about climbing in your window and I can promise that it'll never happen again, right hand to God, but I have class in like twenty minutes and I could really use this A, Mr. uh...?”

“Larry.”

“Right. Larry.” God, Freddy is too high for this. He risks a glance up to find Larry smiling at him and he feels some of the tension in his muscles loosen a little bit.

“I was kidding about makin' you disappear, kid, so don't look so spooked.” Larry says with a chuckle before folding the newspaper and setting it on the arm of the couch. He grabs Freddy's bio textbook off the floor near his feet before standing, holding it out. “I assume this is the book you mentioned?”

They're almost the same height, Freddy notes with a small flutter in his stomach. Larry is broader, though, muscled like maybe he did some time in the Marines. “Yeah, thanks.” Freddy manages, trying to remember if Bobby ever mentioned the kind of work his father does. “I uh, I need to get going, though. It takes like fifteen minutes to walk to the science building from here.”

“You can use the front door this time, if you want.” Larry says warmly, offering an easy smile.

Freddy returns it, if a little shyly, and mumbles a goodbye before turning and making his way down the hall.

He _does_ use the front door this time, and makes it to class with a few minutes to spare.

 

* * *

 

He makes it through the test and jerks off the moment he gets back to his apartment, pointedly ignoring the fact that he's thinking about his best friend's dad while he does it. He's always had sort of a thing for older guys but Larry hits him in ways he never imagined, and he gives himself a resigned look in the bathroom mirror while he washes his hands. It's not like anything will ever come from a dumb crush on the guy so he doesn't have too much to worry about in the grand scheme of things—he'll get hung up on the man for a while but then he'll meet someone else and get over it, he's been through it before, only last time it was a professor. 

He flicks the light off on the way out of the bathroom and moves into the living room to drop onto the couch with a heavy sigh, grabbing an album from the pile of records on his coffee table and the Baretta lunchbox sitting next to it. The scent of weed crashes into him as he opens the lid and he pulls out what he needs before setting it on the couch beside him.

Almost as soon as he finishes packing the bowl, there's a knock on the door and he sets Bowie's _Station to Station_ back on the coffee table with everything still spread across it. He lets Bobby in with a casual smile that hopefully makes up for the dirty thoughts he had (and would probably continue to have) about his friend's father. “You've got impeccable timing.” He says easily, padding back over to the couch and flipping on MTV. “I finished packing a bowl right before you knocked.”

“Nice.” Bobby says as he flops onto the couch beside him, dropping his bag onto the floor at his feet. “My dad said you dropped in this afternoon.”

Freddy shrugs as nonchalantly as he can, trying to gauge how embarrassed he should feel about the whole thing. “Yeah, sorry. I needed my bio textbook, man. You're the one who taught me to get in through that window.”

“Hey, it's no biggie, he's not pissed or anything. Actually, he wanted me to ask you if you want to go get pizza with us tomorrow night.”

It's a surprise since Freddy didn't exactly make the best first impression but his stomach does a flip-flop, fumbling with the lighter as he brings the pipe to his lips. He knows that he's going to accept the offer before the smoke even hits his lungs, just like he knows that however the evening turns out, it'll only be adding to a fire that's likely to grow out of control. He's never stood much of a chance when it comes to older men.

“Sure, sounds fun.”

 

* * *

 

Freddy's starving when the pizza gets to their table and the nervous bounce of his leg momentarily stops as he drops a slice onto his plate. He subconsciously glances up at Larry as he licks stray pizza grease from his thumb and there are an electrifying couple of seconds when he catches brown eyes watching the movement carefully, sending his heart racing. It's over in a breath but it takes a few moments for Freddy to dislodge his heart from his throat, shoving a bite of pizza into his mouth and gluing his eyes to the table to keep his mind from going places it shouldn't.

“So how'd that test go, Freddy?” Larry asks.

“Piece of cake, thanks to the book.” Freddy replies with a grin, reaching for his glass of Coke. The test would have been impossible otherwise but he doesn't really feel like admitting how badly he needed the A. He'd rather keep his shortcomings off the table for now.

“And what are you studying?”

“Uh, well, I'm still undeclared right now so I'm covering the basics and y'know, the stuff that interests me.” Freddy says. He normally hates talking about school because he doesn't have anything great to say about it but it's not so bad when Larry's the one doing the asking. “I considered majoring in somethin' like criminal justice for a while but it wasn't really my thing.” This earns a poorly suppressed snicker from Bobby who probably heard something like ' _I sell and smoke too much weed to have a future involved in law_ ' buy Freddy ignores it. Selling weed pays for his education, after all.

They stay on the subject of school for a while—Bobby talks about his classes and Freddy admires the way Larry smiles—but conversation progresses naturally. It's almost surprising when he looks down to see that the pizza's practically nothing but crumbs.

Bobby excuses himself to the restroom and Freddy finishes off his soda, trying not to dwell on the fact that it'll be the first time he's been alone with Larry all night. He's managed not to make a fool of himself so far, he just needs to keep it together a little while longer.

Larry wipes his fingers on a napkin before looking up to meet Freddy's eyes. “So, you got a girlfriend Freddy?”

He asks it so casually that Freddy is almost certain he's imagining the significance of the timing. “Nah, I'm not seein' anyone right now.” He says, and then after a moment of hesitation he adds, “And I'm not sure if girls are, uh, really my thing.” Heat rises in his cheeks at the admission and he wishes he'd asked for a refill on his Coke because he has no idea what to do with his hands, finally settling for fidgeting with his sleeve.

“Ain't nothin' wrong with that.” Larry says evenly, and the corner of his mouth quirks into suggestive smile as Freddy looks up at him.

And then he winks, and the room suddenly feels too hot but Freddy can't look away.

He feels like he's beginning to go crazy because his wishful thinking is looking more and more like it's _not_ , like maybe Larry is a little interested in him too, but he can't wrap his head around it, can't even begin to consider the possibility. His luck is never that good.

The tension between them (which Freddy still isn't sure is mutual) is broken when Bobby returns to the table, leaving Freddy with a racing heart and a reeling head. He accompanies his friend over to the pinball machines near the door while Larry pays the check, glancing back at the counter only a couple times.

“Hey, you got a couple quarters?” He asks, nudging Bobby in the side when he finds that his own pockets are empty of change.

“You know, for a guy who sells weed you sure don't seem to make a lot of money.” Bobby mutters. Despite the eye roll he still sticks a hand in his pocket and fishes around for some quarters, dropping a few into Freddy's palm before putting a couple into the machine in front of him.

“I think of it more as a hobby than a career.” Freddy quips back without missing a beat. He starts his own game with a grin still on his face, falling silent as they both focus their attention on the pinball machines.

He's still on the first ball when Larry crosses the room and he looks over just long enough to fumble, losing the multiplier score he'd been working on.

“You guys can finish your games, I'm gonna go for a smoke outside.” The older man says, and Freddy's hand freezes over the pinball plunger.

“God, I'm dyin' for a cigarette." He says before he can think about what he's saying. "Bobby, you could probably beat the high score if you continue my game.” He offers just as Bobby's scoreboard flashes “GAME OVER”, and he knows that Bobby isn't one to turn down a chance at a high score.

He's halfway out the door before he realizes that he's not being very subtle. Still, it's too late to back out now, and it's been a few hours since his last cigarette. He promises himself that he'll tone it down as he follows Larry outside, pulling out his pack of Marlboros.

Larry frowns slightly as Freddy puts a cigarette between his lips. “You know, you're awful young to be smoking.” He says, but he flicks open a Zippo and holds it out to Freddy anyway, igniting it beneath the cigarette hanging from Freddy's mouth.

Freddy has a lighter in his pocket but he's not about to complain, not when Larry's fingers nearly brush his cheek as he moves to shield the flame from the wind. “I'm old enough to buy 'em so I figure I'm old enough to smoke 'em.” He remarks as he takes the first drag, shrugging. He's definitely old enough to do _other stuff_ too, but he doesn't mention that. Toning it down and all. “Thanks for the pizza, by the way. Especially after, y'know, climbing in through your window.”

“Any time, kid. I've caught my son's friends doing worse. Just try not to make habit of it.” Larry teases with a smile that almost knocks Freddy off his feet. Freddy's never seen anyone so painfully handsome.

“I'll try the front door first.” He says with a breathy laugh. The warmth from the restaurant is being slowly replaced by the night chill and he pulls his jacket a little tighter, suppressing a shiver.

“You cold?”

“Nah, I'm fine.”

Larry stands a little closer anyway. After a moment he asks, “Do you need a ride home?”

Freddy had been planning on just walking home, but the offer of a ride is far more appealing, especially with how chilly it feels. “Sure, I mean, if it's no trouble or anything.” 

“'Course it's not.”

Freddy hides a shy smile behind his cigarette, acknowledging that he may have gotten himself into something more than he bargained for.

It might not be such a bad thing, though.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddy's crush does not go away. In fact, it gets much, much worse.

Bobby’s sprawled across the floor of his room, plucking away at a poorly tuned guitar that he doesn’t entirely know how to play while Freddy works on rolling another joint. They used to smoke in the living room where at least there was a TV, but not since Larry began having an actual presence in the house.

Freddy wants to ask why that is—why Bobby’s dad is suddenly _there_ all the time—but he’s pretty sure Bobby already suspects something so he’s not going down that road. He’d rather not admit how bad his crush has gotten. And it’s gotten pretty bad. He’s pretty sure he’s not going to just get over this any time soon.

And the worst part is, Larry’s gotta know by now. Freddy’s been caught staring too many times, even catches himself acting like the walking embodiment of every crush related cliché in the book, there’s no way his feelings aren’t written on his sleeve for everyone in the world to see.

He tucks the unlit joint between his lips as he shoves his stash back into his bag, fishing around for a lighter until his fingers curl around one just beneath a textbook. “So uh, your dad ain’t gonna hand me over to the cops if he catches us smokin’, is he?” He asks as he lights the joint.

“Nah, man. I don’t think he’d give a shit.” Bobby mumbles back, trying to get the tuning of the high E string just right, only looking up when Freddy offers him the joint. “He doesn’t like cops much, anyway.”

Freddy doesn’t say anything in response, although he has about a million questions flying around in his head. He and Bobby never really discussed family outside of brief mentions since it was never really relevant. But now it _is_ relevant, to Freddy at least, and he has no idea how to bring it up without making his helpless infatuation any more obvious than it already is.

 

It doesn’t take them long to smoke the joint down to ashes and Bobby is still adjusting the same high E, driving Freddy slowly insane. Finally, when he can’t take it any longer, he gets to his feet and stretches. “You want a soda or something?”

Bobby thinks for a moment, fingers pausing on the guitar string. “Totally, and I think there’s a bag of chips in the pantry if you wanna grab those, too.”

Freddy flashes a thumbs up and leaves the room before the off-pitch high E can resume.

On his trek downstairs, he thinks about the homework he needs to complete before Monday. Thinks about the fact that he’s down to two cigarettes and needs to buy a new pack. For a few moments he’s _not_ thinking about his crush, he’s just stoned enough to forget to remember it. Right up until the moment when he collides with a person in the hallway, the only person he _could_ run into in the hallway, and he remembers with perfect clarity that, oh yeah, he’s sort of falling hard for his best friend’s dad.

They’re standing too close, close enough for Freddy to know that Larry just recently got out of the shower because his hair is damp and he smells of soap and aftershave—which probably also means that Larry can pick up on the scent of weed that clings to Freddy, but that’s the last thought on Freddy's mind. The very first thought on his mind is the fact that he needs to apologize for the collision and step away but he can’t move a muscle, frozen in place and fighting the impulse to do something stupid as his eyes watch a bead of moisture drip from Larry’s hair and trail down his neck to his collarbone to be absorbed by the fabric of the man’s rust colored T-shirt. The second thought on Freddy’s mind is that Larry isn’t stepping away, either.

Freddy takes a shuddering breath that he hopes isn’t as visible as it feels and finally returns to his own personal space, fighting through to haze of pot smoke in his brain. “Sorr—uh,” He clears his throat as his voice cracks. “Sorry.”

A look crosses over Larry’s face for a split second and his tone is rougher than usual as he speaks. “Don’t worry about it, kid.”

* * *

 

Freddy slides his sunglasses onto his face as he steps out of the lecture hall, more out of habit than out of necessity because it's overcast with clouds that threaten rain, thunder rumbling far away in the distance. He pulls the pack of Marlboros from his back pocket and lights one up while he searches the crowd of students for Bobby, taking a long few moments fighting the breeze to coax a flame from his lighter. He pockets it with a sigh, exhaling with a steady stream of smoke as the nicotine curls its way through his system for the first time in hours.

He spots Bobby walking towards him and pockets the lighter, letting it fall among the handful of quarters and pocket lint. “Hey, so I was thinkin' we should stop by the 7-11 to pick up some chips or something before heading back to your house.” He says when Bobby's right beside him.

“Dude, I actually gotta hit up some office hours, so I can't leave yet.”

“What, are you in trouble or something?” Freddy asks, ashing his cigarette with a flick of his thumb.

“No, fuck you, I'm just like...taking initiative in my academic career. Whatever, anyway, you can head over now if you want and just wait for me there. I shouldn't take that long.”

“Aaaand...about how long is that? I could probably just kill some time on campus until you’re done.”

Bobby rolls his eyes and glances down at his watch. “I dunno, an hour maybe? Jeez, dude, you’ve been to my house without me before. You can hang out if you want but I figured you’d wanna ignore walking in the rain.”

Freddy makes a face because that’s a good point. He wasn’t thinking about the approaching rainstorm, he was just thinking about the best ways to _not_ be alone with Larry for extended periods of time.

It's not that he's avoiding Larry, not really. He’s just trying to avoid making a fool of himself again by coming off like a hot and bothered college student. Which he is, technically, but he's trying to be realistic. Larry's too old to be interested in a scrawny little college kid like him, and the sooner he moves on the sooner he'll save himself from the heartache of a silly unrequited crush.

The only problem is, he's definitely not over _anything_. Not even close. And he desperately wants to believe that, however unlikely, his crush may not be entirely unrequited. He's got it bad for a man he barely even knows—his best friend's _d_ _a_ _d_ , for fuck's sake—and forgetting about it doesn't seem to be working. Ignoring it has been a lost cause. All he can do is let himself hope and dream until he gets over it.

He stands there full of indecision until his cigarette burns down to the filter, dropping it on the concrete and crushing it beneath the toe of his sneaker before finally beginning the trek to Bobby's house. He tries not to think too hard about being alone with Larry. Tries, but doesn’t quite succeed.

 

By the time he gets there, the first drops of rain are just beginning to fall, filling the air with a cool moisture that sticks to his lips. He scales the front porch steps with a nervous energy in his step and hesitates for just a moment before pressing the doorbell, stomach flipping when he does. A dog starts barking from somewhere down the street and he itches to light up a cigarette.

He doesn't have to wait long for the door to swing open and Larry looks almost surprised to see him, offering a warm smile that crinkles the corners of his lips. It shouldn't be enough to send Freddy's heart racing but it is.

“Hey, kiddo. Glad to see you’re using the door this time.” Larry teases, and Freddy wonders how long he’d been saving that one. This is the first time he’s shown up without Bobby since The Window Incident.

“Turns out it’s way easier than climbing in through a window.” Freddy says, pausing as he realizes he’s been staring at Larry’s lips. He quickly chooses a part of the door frame to stare at instead and subconsciously bites his bottom lip, entirely missing the look that crosses Larry’s face at the action. “Bobby had to do some stuff on campus and said it’d be cool if I waited for him here.” He explains.

“’Course it is, kid. Come on in.” Larry says easily. He steps back so he can open the door wider, placing a hand on Freddy's shoulder to usher him inside.

Even through his leather jacket, the brief touch sends electricity up his spine, making him imagine that touch everywhere on his body. He tries to sweep those thoughts out of his head but it isn't an easy task when Larry's wearing a t-shirt that makes his arms look _so good_ , stretching over his biceps in just the right way. He already feels overwhelmed, like maybe he should have chosen to walk in the rain instead, and he feels like he should say something to fill the silence to make things feel more normal, so he says the first thing that comes to mind. “Uh, Bobby said he'd be home in like an hour? Or, well, I guess it would be less than an hour, now, because he told me that right after I got out of class and it took me a while to walk here. But I mean, I’ve never met with teachers during office hours so I honestly don’t know how long it’ll take him.” Freddy knows he’s starting to ramble so he shuts his mouth with a click of teeth, looking anywhere but at Larry because his skin already feels like it’s on fire and he’s peeling his jacket off before he can even process what he’s doing. “Is it hot in here?”

Larry chuckles. “Do I make you nervous, Freddy?” He asks quietly, smoothly.

“No, what? Of course not.” Freddy lies, wondering how much faster his heart could possibly beat without sending him into cardiac arrest.

Larry takes a few steps closer until there are just a few inches between them and Freddy has no choice but to look at the man’s face, his own face burning because they’re once again close enough for the warm scent of Larry’s aftershave to fill his senses. “You sure, kid? Because you seem pretty nervous.”

Freddy's not even sure what to say. He _is_ nervous. He’s so goddamn nervous and his mind is reeling as he tries to decipher any context for their present closeness, as he tries to think of anything to say that would adequately fill the silence and drown out the sound of his heart beating and the blood rushing through his ears.

Larry studies his face for a moment, eyes falling to Freddy's lips and he looks like he’s about to say something but he seems to think better of it, letting out an almost imperceptible sigh before drawing back a few inches. “I think you dropped something, kiddo.” He says with a smirk and a glance down the floor by Freddy's feet. Freddy’s gaze follows, falling upon the baggie of weed that had probably fallen out of his jacket when he’d taken it off. Before he can say anything, Larry is already moving toward the kitchen. “You want a pop or somethin’?”

* * *

 

The rain hasn't stopped. Freddy can hear it faintly from where he's sprawled out on Bobby's couch, the quiet background static of the downpour outside that's not quite blocked out by the sounds of _The Twilight Zone_ playing on the television. He hadn't meant to spend the night. He'd meant to head home as soon as the storm broke but that didn't happen, and Larry offered to let him sleep on the couch, so here he is.

He takes a drag of the cigarette balanced between his fingers, staring up at the ceiling with an elbow hooked over one armrest and his ankles crossed over the other. It's late, sometime past midnight maybe, and the taste of weed is heavy on his tongue, a comfortable haze drifting through his body. The end credits are just beginning to roll across the TV screen when he hears noises in the kitchen. Footsteps, and then Larry's voice like he's talking on the phone, though Freddy can't hear much of what's being said. He doesn't want to, either, because eavesdropping isn't really his thing, but he can't help but notice that it doesn't sound particularly pleasant. The tone of Larry's voice is low and sharp like he's arguing, and Freddy knows pretty well what a hushed argument sounds like.

After about ten minutes the conversation presumably ends and the kitchen goes quiet. Freddy listens for a few moments before sliding off the couch and snagging his stash tin off the coffee table, shoving it into the pocket of his sweats. He pads quietly across the room, listening for any signs of movement in the kitchen as he seeks Larry out in the dark.

“Shit kid, I'm sorry. Did I wake you up?” The older man asks when he notices that he's not alone, his form barely illuminated by the silver light streaming in from the window.

“Nah, I was already up.” Freddy says as he hops up onto the counter. He leaves a safe distance between them but he's still close enough to gently nudge the man with his foot. “That didn't sound good.”

Larry moves from where he's leaning against the counter to open the fridge. “How much did you hear?” He asks, pulling out two bottles of beer. He pops them open with the bottle opener hanging off a hook on the wall before resuming his previous position—he seems closer this time, but Freddy can't tell for sure—holding one of the beers out as he takes a sip of his own.

“Nothin' other than the general tone of conversation, don't worry. I wasn't like, listening in.” Freddy says honestly. He pauses to take a sip of his beer, peeling the label off so his fingers have something to do. “Sounded tense, though.”

“Mm, you can say that again.”

Freddy leans in to bump his shoulder against Larry's, setting the bottle on the counter beside him. The darkness makes him feel much more confident in his actions. “I roll a mean joint, if you're interested.” He offers.

“Oh really?” Larry asks with a chuckle. “Well, let's see what you got then.”

Freddy pulls the tin out of his pocket and sets it down beside him, sliding a rolling paper out of the pack and making quick work of it, even with shaking hands. This is all very uncharted territory and the afternoon’s events have been playing on a loop inside his head all night, the way Larry seemed to know precisely what he was doing to Freddy.

There’s that glimmer of hope again—the one that makes Freddy think that maybe he’s not alone in his feelings.

“And here you have the reason I can’t ever be in law enforcement.” Freddy says as he holds the finished joint out to Larry.

They smoke about half of it in the silent darkness, hands brushing every so often as they pass the joint back and forth, but this time the silence between them is almost comfortable.

Larry is the one to speak first, voice quiet. “Bobby ever tell you what kind of work I do?”

“He never mentioned much about you.” Freddy answers honestly.

“That’s not surprising. He don’t know much.” Larry says, taking a drag and passing the joint back to Freddy. “Needless to say, I can’t ever be in law enforcement either.”

 

* * *

 

 

Freddy's never been punched in the face before, and it's...not great.

He hears _something_ crack after the guy swings a second time, stars erupting across his vision as he staggers backwards. The taste of blood is thick in his mouth and he barely has a chance to brace himself before another punch hits him square in the gut and knocks the wind out of him. Someone finally pulls the guy away and Freddy's hands move up to cradle his face, scoping out the damage. They come away bloody but nothing feels broken.

The bartender disperses the small crowd of spectators and glares at Freddy like he thinks that some scrawny college kid picked a fight with someone who could so obviously beat the shit out of him. “Alright kid, let's see some ID before I call the cops.”

Freddy tries not to make a face at how totally _not awesome_ cops would be since he's obviously got enough dope on him to get arrested for intent to sell. “Look, man, I'm twenty but I wasn't here to drink, I had to meet a guy.” Freddy says defensively. Can this guy not see that he just got his ass handed to him? “I didn't come here lookin' for trouble, alright? And I'll be outta here just as soon as I call somebody to pick me up.”

The bartender gives him a hard look, like he might be considering calling the cops anyway, but he relents after a few seconds. “You get one phone call but then you're out. And I don't wanna see you in here again.”

“Wow, thanks.” Freddy mutters, following the bartender up to the counter where the phone is shoved roughly into his hands. It occurs to him as his finger hovers over the buttons that the only two numbers he knows are his own and Bobby's, and Bobby mentioned about spending the weekend camping with some guys from his English class. The only one home will be Larry.

Freddy takes a deep breath before dialing.

He almost gives up hope after three dial tones but then there's a click and Larry's unmistakable voice, and he's honestly not sure if he feels relief or mild terror.

“Hey Larry, it's, uh, Freddy.” He tries to put a little bit of enthusiasm into the greeting but he can't quite manage it. His eyes wander across the bottles of booze lined up on the shelves before landing on the bartender who's still giving him a _look_. “Can I ask a favor?”

“What do you need, kid?”

“I uh.” Freddy clears his throat and tells his racing heart to cool it. Getting decked in the face twice was enough to get his heart rate up, anything more and he might have a heart attack. “Can you pick me up?”

* * *

 

 

Freddy leans against a wall outside the bar where the shadows stand a decent chance of hiding the carnage covering his face. At least his nose stopped bleeding. The cool breeze feels nice but there's a threat of rain in the clouds and a rumble of thunder in the distance.

He pulls a cigarette out of the pack and sticks it between lips that are still stained with blood, lighting it on the third try. He's smoked it down to the filter by the time Larry pulls up, just as the first hints of a drizzle begin to fall. He lets his hair fall into his face as he climbs into the car but it's no use, he looks like hell and there's no hiding it. He can feel Larry's eyes zero in on him instantly.

“Jesus Christ, kid.” The man's look of concern is almost unbearable and he reaches a hand over to turn Freddy's face toward him, examining the damage with gentle fingers. “Does it feel like anything's broken?”

“I don't think so.”

“Mm, you'd know.” Larry says. His hand lingers on the side of Freddy's face as he searches green eyes. “What the fuck're you doin' at a bar pickin' fights? You ain't even old enough to drink.”

Freddy is a little disappointed when the hand falls away and he lets his gaze sweep across the parking lot instead of keeping them on the driver. “It wasn't like that. I was here to meet a guy, drop somethin' off, and that's it.” He sniffles because of the lingering night chill and the blood in his throat, reaching into his pocket for another smoke. “And then some meathead ran into me and started shit before I could even open my mouth to fuckin' apologize!”

Larry listens carefully, fishing out his own lighter when Freddy's does nothing but spark. “You think there's anything that warrants a trip to the emergency room?”

“It's nothin' that serious.” Freddy assures, though he's not one hundred percent sure. One of his teeth feels like it might be a little loose but he's at least pretty sure that the pain in his abdomen _isn't_ internal bleeding. “You can just take me back to my place. I'll be fine.”

Larry doesn't argue but he does look worried, frowning as he pulls out of the parking lot. They don't do much talking during the drive and Freddy's thankful for the (probably temporary) reprieve from conversation. He'd rather not talk about how badly he got his ass kicked.

When Larry finally kills the engine in front of Freddy's apartment he turns to give the younger man a serious look. “I'm not gonna force ya to go to a hospital if you don't think it's necessary but do you want me to come in and help you get cleaned up?”

Freddy nods, face getting warm at the thought of having Larry in his apartment. There's a sharp pain in his abdomen as he gets out of the car but he ignores it in favor of playing the tough guy, scaling the stairs with clenched teeth and strained breath. He can feel Larry close behind him and it's enough to make him fumble with his keys as he unlocks the door.

“You got a first aid kid anywhere?”

“Yeah, in the bathroom.” Freddy offers as he shrugs out of his leather jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch before starting down the short hallway. He flicks the bathroom light on and pointedly ignores looking at his reflection in the mirror, but he still catches glimpses out of his peripheral as he grabs the first aid kit from underneath the sink and it really does look bad.

“Hop up on the counter.” Larry says, grabbing a wash cloth from the shelf. Freddy does as he's told but he lets out a squeak as he scoots backwards, flinching as he tightens his abs. It doesn't go unnoticed. “I take it the guy also punched you in the stomach?”

Freddy just purses his lips and nods. After a moment his fingers go to the hem of his Spiderman T-shirt and he pulls it over his shoulders with only an ounce of hesitation. Only, then he wishes he hadn't. The bruise, even still fresh, is a lot worse than he thought it was and Larry's grimace matches his own.

“Did you at least get to land a couple punches on the guy?”

Freddy lets out a breathy laugh followed by a slow hiss as the warm washcloth comes in contact with his face. “Nah, they pulled him away after he got done usin' me as a punching bag.”

“You sure are takin' this like a champ.” Larry says, and his voice is quiet. He steps a little closer as he carefully cleans the blood from Freddy's nose, thigh pressing against the younger man's knee.

“I think I'm still runnin' off the adrenaline.” Freddy admits. His head is still spinning and the current situation is doing nothing to help. Larry is so close, so fuckin’ gentle, all Freddy can do is shut his eyes because he can’t think of anyone else who’d seem so concerned about him getting his ass whooped.

“Well it looks like your pretty face is more or less intact.” Larry says, voice just as gentle as his hands.

Freddy feels the warmth of the washcloth leave his face but its the words that make him open his eyes again, breath catching as his gaze meets Larry’s because there are only inches between them and the man’s breathing is uneven and Freddy _must_ still be running of the adrenaline because he shifts ever-so-slightly so that his knee is pressed up against the bulge he can clearly feel in the man’s pants.

Time seems to slow down as Freddy steadfastly meets Larry’s darkening eyes, the hand that had been holding the wash cloth just moments prior moving to grip Freddy's thigh. They’re right on the edge of _something_ , toeing the point of no return, both hesitant to make the next move. Freddy bites his lip and grimaces as he reopens a cut as as though he had flipped a switch, Larry takes a step back.

The older man takes a moment to recalibrate, taking a few slow breaths before closing his eyes and rubbing a hand across his face. “You’ve had a long night, Freddy. You need to rest. You need to…think clearly, I can’t—You have no idea—” Larry takes a deep breath and looks up at Freddy with a pained expression. “Just rest up, kiddo. I’ll see you later.”

Freddy watches Larry leave, heart in his throat because they were _so fucking close_. His head is spinning for so many reasons and as he hears the front door close all he can think is _what the fuck just happened?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like....I know it's been inexcusably long since I last updated this (or y'know....anything) and this chapter is actually the first thing I've written in over a year, so I'm really hoping to get back into the swing of things!!

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even have an excuse for this?? Other than the fact that I'm weak for hot dad Larry.


End file.
